


To the Grave

by Trash



Category: Linkin Park
Genre: Borderline Necrophilia, Death, M/M, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:12:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trash/pseuds/Trash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they do has to be kept a secret. Their twisted tale has to go with them to the grave</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Grave

Everybody knows what goes on behind closed doors when it comes to Mike and Chester. Everybody knows that Chester’s black eye isn’t from falling over when he was drunk. He didn’t break his arm when he tripped down the stairs. He didn’t split his lip by accident.

It’s all Mike. And everybody knows it. But it’s hard to do anything when Chester just smiles, shrugs, winces in pain and shrugs again saying “It’s okay. I’m fine. He loves me” all the mother fucking time.

Brad worries his lower lip between his teeth and sighs softly “Are you sure?”

Chester’s eyes say it all. They say no, please help me, please but his mouth says “Yeah. Positive.”

And they go back to writing music, or drinking, or playing pool.

Or making out.

Or…Chester drops to his knees again and wraps his lips around Brad’s cock, gripping his ass and bobbing his head. And Brad goes right back to moaning lowly, his eyes rolling back into his head.

Nothing is fine, but they kid themselves everything is until, one day, Brad calls around to Chester’s to find there’s no answer. He calls the singer’s cell and can hear it ring distantly in the house. He hammers on the door desperately, his stomach in knots already because didn’t Chester have a date with Mike this morning?

Doesn’t that mean something is wrong?

He’s busy considering kicking the door down when Chester opens it and falls outside into Brad’s arms. Both of his eyes are black, his nose swollen, his lip fat and cut in the middle. There are dark purple bruises blooming up the inside of his arms in the shape of fingers. The shape of Mike’s fingers.

Through cracked lips Chester whispers “He’s coming back, Brad. He knows.”

Brad opens his mouth to say something, his eyes wide with shock, when a voice comes from behind him. “Get the fuck inside.” It’s Mike. And he sounds pissed. “Now.” The emcee hisses.

Brad half carries Chester in doors and immediately swings for Mike growling “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me with this shit.”

Mike doesn’t see it coming and Brad’s fist knocks him off guard and his stumbles, dazed, until Brad swings his fist into his stomach. The emcee doubles over and gasps for breath. In the background Chester falls over, carpet burns on his hands as he falls on his ass.

Brad looks over his shoulder, “Chaz?”

“Don’t. Leave him alone, Brad. Please. Leave him.”

Mike shoves Brad hard saying “You’d better listen to him Bradford.”

Brad swings for him again and pushes him against the wall, slamming him back over and over and over, smashing his head back. Mike blinks and gasps and Brad punches him dead on in the face, breaking his nose. Blood and snot stream down Mike’s face as he breathes heavily, wheezing hard.

Bringing his knee up, Brad hits him in the crotch sending Mike falling, crying out in pain.

Chester screams in the background, too weak to stand up, screaming “Stop, Brad, stop it! Fuck!”

But he doesn’t. He kicks Mike over and over in the ribs, head, back, legs saying “You’re a fucking cunt you fucking lying piece of shit. Love hurts, yeah? Well, fuck you.”

He doesn’t stop until Mike goes limp.

The wheezing stops.

And Chester screams. He crawls over to his lovers body and shakes him, “Mikey come on wake up.” He presses two fingers to the emcee’s neck and jumps back in shock. “Oh fuck. Oh god, Brad.”

“He’s dead, then.” Says Brad calmly. “Is he dead?”

“You killed him.”

Brad gawps, “He was going to kill you, Chaz. Look at the state of you!”

Chester sits on the ground next to Mike’s body, knees drawn up to his chest, crying.

And Brad has no idea what to do.

***

They tell the police that somebody broke in and attacked Chester and Mike. Brad came over and found them like that, Mike dead and Chester sobbing his heart out. Scared and in pain. It’s a lie, and Chester doesn’t meet Brad’s eyes as he makes a statement, but they’re safe. That’s all that matters.

Chester stands at the back of the group crowded around Mike’s coffin as the Priest says a few words. He can’t look at Brad. He can’t look at anyone, really, least of all the Priest. Something about being part of a murder and being at the victim’s funeral makes him sure he’s going straight to hell.

The bruises on his face are fading and the ones on Mike’s have been completely blotted out with makeup. Glass coffin – just like Mike always wanted. Fucking exhibitionist that he was. Chester was against the idea, especially now, but Brad said it was only right that they grant his wish.

Talk about a guilt trip.

Brad links their pinky fingers and stares straight ahead, not really looking at anything. Eventually the funeral breaks up and people are given time to say their last goodbyes. Chester and Brad head to the front once everyone is gone and they stare down at Mike through the thick glass.

“He could be sleeping.” Says Chester.

And Brad says, “I hope he’s having fucking nightmares.”

“Don’t be like that,” Chester breathes, touching the glass before pulling his hand away, “respect the dead.”

Brad turns to him and cups his face, their lips so close their breath ghosts each other’s faces, “If he’d had his way that’d be you in there.”

“No. I want to be cremated.”

They kiss, their lips moving against one another’s slowly and softly. The sun is setting and it’s beautiful, if you ignore the corpse beside them. Brad pushes Chester up against the coffin, deepening the kiss and pressing hard against him. The singer moans lowly and slips a hand into the back of Brad’s jeans.

“No,” Brad murmurs, gripping Chester’s hips and lifting him up onto the coffin. He moves forward and Chester wraps his legs around his waist with a sigh, their lips meeting again.

“Brad,” Chester breathes between kisses, “fuck me.”

“Oh hell yes.” Brad pushes Chester to lie atop the coffin and he climbs up, straddling his waist. He grinds his hips down and moans lowly. Over Chester’s shoulder he can see Mike’s body and that just makes him grind down harder.

He reaches between their bodies and unbuttons Chester’s jeans hastily. He moves enough for Chester to pull them off along with his boxers and for him to unfasten and remove his own.

Chester pushes him back to lie down and wraps a hand around his cock. He strokes Brad slowly, eyes on Mike’s body. Brad moans and bucks his hips, desperate for more contact. “Please,” he begs, “Chester.”

He sucks three of his own fingers into his mouth and lowers them behind himself, circling his own entrance. Quickly he pushes two into his body, closing his eyes and sighing. He relaxes immediately, keeping a steady pace on Brad’s dick with his right hand and penetrating himself with his left. He pushes another finger in, scissoring them all inside of himself and moaning loudly as they brush his prostate.

Brad is a mess beneath him, writhing on the coffin above Mike and breathing heavily. Chester spreads the precum along the guitarist’s length and shifts his hips, settling above him. Slowly, he lowers himself down, one hand still gripping the base of Brad’s dick, the other digging blunt fingernails into his shoulder.

“Oh fuck yes,” he breathes, “oh yeah.”

He stops when Brad is completely sheathed inside of him, giving himself a moment to relax. Chester leans forward and kisses Brad deeply, tongue, teeth and lips and heavy breathing as he begins to rock his hips.

Anybody could walk over wishing to pay their respects and catch them there red-handed. Their pants are slung to one side, their bodies are slick with sweat cooling rapidly on their skin as the sun sinks below the horizon. But they don’t care. Chester speeds up his thrusts as Brad bucks his hips to meet him half way and opens his eyes to look at Mike.

He’s so close. Grabbing one of Brad’s hands he guides it to his own erection and the guitarist obediently begins to jerk him off. Chester’s hands slide over Brad’s chest, tweaking his nipples and clawing down his side as he tenses his body.

It’s almost Mike’s name he cries when he comes, but he schools his mouth to form Brad’s name instead. He groans lowly and continues to rock his hips, murmuring “Are you close?”

Brad nods and gasps, choking back a moan and bucking his hips once, twice, and spilling himself inside of Chester’s body. His muscles tense and relax sporadically as he rides out his orgasm with soft, panting breaths. “Oh fuck,” he mumbles.

Chester shifts his hips, climbing off Brad’s body with a wince. He looks down at Mike as he climbs off the coffin and pulls on his boxers, jeans and slips his feet into his sneakers. Brad drops to the ground and dresses too, searching for his boxers and giving up after a while. He pulls on his pants and buckles them quickly, “We take all this to our grave, right?”

Chester stands over the coffin with the smudged glass silently. “Yeah,” he says, distractedly, after a long moment of contemplation. “To the grave.”


End file.
